Deterrence Theory

By Angelo Bell

Shamus “Shey” Shepherd, a suspended US Marshal, is reinstated to track down Femi Okila, a South African mercenary. Shey – an arrogant cop with a history of romantic entanglements with his witnesses -- becomes sexually obsessed with Femi, a coquettish but deadly escapee. For Shey, the line between fantasy and reality becomes blurred and confusing as he closes in on Femi. Ultimately, Shey realizes that Femi is a mere pawn in a larger international conspiracy. Now he must uncover the mystery of who’s behind the complicated chaos Femi leaves in her wake before he himself gets caught up and taken out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angelo Bell
• Release date: Mar 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370899333

Angelo Bell

Angelo is an author, a screenwriter, an award-winning director and a producer with credits in the US, Canada, UK, Germany, Spain, Italy, Belgium and the UAE. His blog has been active for longer than most and he freely shares his creative experiences. I have organized industry contests, worked film festivals and supported award shows. His experiences include a decade of making films, screenwriting, independent-filmmaking, and pitching TV shows (he had TV pilot development deals). His first love has always been epic sci-fi/fantasies and action thrillers. He hopes to merge the two genres in his book-writing career. In fact, he has his next three sci-fi thrillers already titled, outlined and ready to write.

Book preview

DETERRENCE THEORY:

A Perfect Weapon

By Angelo J. Bell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Angelo J. Bell

Discover other titles by Angelo J. Bell:

~~Fiction~~

The Gray Meliá

Demigod

~~Nonfiction~~

4 Years to a TV Deal

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapters:

Chapter One: A Perfect Return

Chapter Two: A Perfect Internment

Chapter Three: A Perfect Call to Duty

Chapter Four: A Perfect Start

Chapter Five: A Perfectly Clean Slate

Chapter Six: A Perfect Hunt

Chapter Seven: A Perfect Revelation

Chapter Eight: A Perfect Revelation

Chapter Nine: A Perfect Secret

Chapter Ten: A Perfect Escalation

Chapter Eleven: Seeing Blood

Chapter Twelve: Turning Point

Chapter Thirteen: Butch Bloom

Chapter Fourteen: Near Miss

Chapter Fifteen: Fairway

Chapter Sixteen: Lidiya Yurasov and Kifo Nzuri

Chapter Seventeen: Acute Attraction Syndrome

Epilogue

A PERFECT RETURN

The sun was beginning to set along the western landscape of the Tamil Nadu Jungle. It was a lavish and lush environment, ripe with thick green forestry that mimicked the tropical rain forests. The fifty-foot high canopy blotted out the sun on even the most brilliantly clear days of summer. The jungle was filled with biosphere reserves, national parks, and wildlife sanctuaries, which included protected tiger reserves and bird sanctuaries, was home to the most viable populations of threatened wildlife. Its remote and highly protected location made Tamil Nadu the perfect space for criminal activity of the highest and most heinous sort, as long as individuals and organizations had sufficient means to pay-off government officials and employees of the sanctuary.

Luminescent sunrays that managed to filter through the jungle canopy landed on over one thousand indigenous plant species and their rainbow-colored flora, but gave way to long shadows and patches of darkness below. The changes in light and darkness gave a haunted feel to the small shanty erected in the center of a natural clearing. The clearing was not more than fifty foot in diameter. The dilapidated shanty, built decades ago, was considerably smaller than the open lot and, miraculously, it was quite intact despite the severely aged and weather-beaten trees surrounding it.

There was a path that led in a winding pattern through the jungle to the clearing and the shanty, but it was so faint that to most untrained eyes the path was nonexistent. To the criminals, warlords, militia and international government agencies that frequented the area, the path cut a wide berth through the jungle. It was a treacherous route that passed through primal areas of the jungle where deadly animals ran freely and hunted. Still, Naseem, walked along the path deliberate and unconcerned.

Naseem was a handsome Arab man with a full head of dark hair that was cut low except right above his forehead. Despite the sweltering heat and humidity, Naseem wore a crisp white linen suit with a white Oxford shirt and taupe alligator skin loafers. He carried an elegant eel skin briefcase and a white cotton handkerchief which he used the wipe the sweat beads budding on his brow.

Naseem approached the shanty and took a moment to gather his thoughts. The long walk winded him and that was unlike him. He waited a moment to ensure he had all his faculties when he entered. This was a dangerous game he was about to play and he knew if he gave the wrong impression, a gasp, a bead of sweat forming at the wrong time, a nervous twitch, he could very well die in this shanty.

Naseem pushed the door open and stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, a benefit of the lack of electricity. The flicker of sunlight seemed to refract off smooth wood surfaces between the termite-eaten planks that lined the walls. He dabbed the hanky at his forehead and spotted a machete on the floor. There was dried blood on the serrated blade. Most likely an animal came too close to the shanty and paid the price. The blood was at least a few days old, he surmised. On the floor Naseem spotted wet footprints leading from the entrance to the darkest corner of the shanty. Whomever had entered before him had done so barefoot, and only moments ago. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d been watched then entire time he trekked through the jungle. Whoever had eyes on him moved swiftly through the jungle and beat him to the shanty.

Still, Naseem grinned at the small feet that created the delicate footprints. He followed the prints with his eyes towards the dark corner. He waited another few moments until his eyes were fully satiated with available light. That’s when a human form began to take shape in the darkness. He saw Femi Okilo, straddling an old wooden stool in the corner of the room. She was smiling and her eyes were dancing. She was happy to see him. Naseem smiled. He would not die today.

Femi was a coquettish woman of mixed African and Indian heritage. Her caramel complexion blended well with her strong, narrow features and dazzling green eyes. Her windswept light brown hair hung well below her shoulders and she wore only a only a sweat-stained military uniform shirt that hovered over her upper thighs. Her legs were spread wide as her bare feet were firmly planted on tiptoes at the highest rungs of the footrests. The position pushed her knees up and above her waist, spreading her legs open wider. Luckily, the tail of her shirt covered the tantalizing area between her legs.

At her feet lay another machete. While this machete was free from bloodstains, it was rusted to the point where corrosion had eaten away pieces of the blade. Naseem surmised that the weapon was within quick and easy reach of Femi’s left hand. He smiled to himself. He knew it didn’t matter whether the machete was near her left hand or right hand because Femi was superbly ambidextrous. He’d seen her kill two men simultaneously, with weapons in each hand.

Naseem saw also, despite Femi’s dirty hands and muddy size-four feet, her nails were polished, manicured and pedicured. How in God’s name did she manage that in the middle of nowhere? He wondered. The image of wide spread thighs, polished nails, long mussed tresses matched with a highly seductive smile with a machete at her feet made Femi simultaneously sexy and savage. But there was something else Naseem found even more curious. There was something childlike, innocent and naive about her disposition. The dichotomy was imperfect, still innocence was entirely evident in her smile and dancing eyes.

Naseem closed the door behind him and locked it. Why not? He thought. If she wants to kill me an open door does not equal an opportunity to escape.

He dropped the briefcase on the floor by the bloody machete and stuffed his hands in his pockets to feign contrition.

I’m sorry I was away for so long, Femi. He said apologetically. How have you been, here, with the soldiers.

Suddenly she locked eyes on him like a hungry wolf.

I've been good. Just like you asked. She said breathlessly. She was struggling with restraint and trying to conceal it.

She cast a look at her dirty hands and toes and her face moped with disappointment.

You should have called, Naseem. I would have cleaned up for you. He voice was soft, apologetic and sincere and it made Naseem smile. She lifted her smoldering gaze back to Naseem, clasped both legs like a gymnast and aimed her toes at him, en point, with the precision of a trained dancer.

Naseem felt a tingle in his loins for a moment. She was always so damn sexy, he thought.

It appears my failure to announce my arrival did not prevent you from preparing for the event.

He opened his arms and swept the room in a grand gesture indicating his understanding that the room had been changed. Cleaned in fact. Femi nodded with pleasingly guilty eyes. This was what Naseem wanted. He wanted her happy. He moved closer.

Femi, my dear, I want us to talk about something other than this place and what we’ve done here. I’d like to discuss something much more important. Something much bigger than you could ever imagine.

Bigger? she echoed.

"I want to speak about freedom; freedom from the chains that bind us. From the chains that bind you."

Femi wagged a finger at him. You’re a tease, Naseem. She motioned for him to come closer. When he did, she reached out with her left hand and caressed the tips of his fingers until he could withstand it no more. He interlocked his fingers with hers, like two lovers in the throes of passion.

Of course I want to be free, Naseem. She said plainly. I'm ready. Who shall we fight?

Femi fetched the machete at her feet with her right hand. Naseem gently grabbed the handle and took the weapon away from her while shaking his head.

There will be no more bloody battles, dear Femi.

He tossed the blade behind him to where the bloody machete sat. He kneeled at her feet, retrieved his sweaty handkerchief and began to wipe the dirt from her toes. Femi giggled from the tickling sensation.

Freedom you shall have my dear. Naseem assured her as he kissed her big toe. We both shall.

A PERFECT INTERNMENT

Bush Transitional Incarceration Facility, also known as BTIF, was once a decaying black site used as a rendition facility, much like the detention prison in Guantanamo Bay. It was built at the northwest corner of the Kisatchie National Forest, two hundred miles north of Alexandria. After a clash of politics and administrations closed the facility, it was taken over by the private sector and given a proper name and purpose. It was now a women’s detention facility for incorrigible felons. Seventy percent of the inmates were incarcerated for at least one murder. Others were imprisoned for kidnapping, sodomy, and malicious assaults. Many had received their third strike and life sentences inside the prison.

One Fifteen months after her seductive conversation with Naseem, Femi Okilo was arrested, jailed and sentenced to life imprisonment at BTIF. Three years later, after cumulative total of six months in solitary confinement, four months in the infirmary and 3 weeks in Intensive Care, Femi stopped being the portrait of a dysfunctional hyper-aggressive prisoner. She became a model citizen. She no longer defied the prison guards on a whim. She avoided conflict with other prisoners, even at the cost of what some would call her self-respect and reputation. She was adamant about turning a new leaf and being a different person. Some thing had turned her towards living a life of non-violence. Whatever it was, both her fellow prisoners and the prison guards were relieved.

Sundays were always eventful days in BTIF. In lieu of church services many of the women spent the day mingling in the chow hall. Correction officers pushed the big screen TV into the hall and cranked the volume up. On Sunday morning the TV aired sports events, and in the afternoon the prisoner all agreed to watch less aggressive broadcasts on the Lifetime Movie Network. All the women could agree that med were dogs and portrayed appropriately on the channel.

Today, a small and peaceful group of prisoners played bingo, others played dice against the concrete wall beneath window in the Correction Officer’s bullpen. Some in heavy and garish makeup sat upon tables painting each other’s nails. The women came in all shapes, sizes and colors but they had one thing in common: Pink and black striped prison jumpsuits. Two years earlier the warden, Joe Arpen, read a study, which theorized that the color pink calmed prisoners. He refused to listen arguments to the contrary and ordered new jumpsuits for everyone. Every day in the chow hall the individual and highly polarized groups shared a mutual distaste of pink. The Blacks hated it. The Latino’s hated it. The Asian gangs hated it. The Whites hated it as much as the fresh-meat newbies who corralled themselves in a corner hoping not to be picked out of the crowd and tormented or worse.

Femi sat alone on Sundays, pretty much the same as she did every day of the week. It was the only day she allowed herself to leave her cramped cell and sit under the bright fluorescent lights to read. In the early days of her incarceration sitting alone made Femi a target for the so-called bosses of the prison gangs. They sized her up, assuming her diminutive features and natural beauty made her an easy mark. The bosses were wrong and the repercussions of their poor assumptions were most painful. Some of the lackeys learned in the most permanent ways. It didn’t matter to Femi. She was in prison for life. A few more deaths did not affect her time.

Eventually, as she turned over a new leaf of non-violence Femi surrounded herself with stacks of biographies on Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Malcolm X, Steven Biko and Hazare. However peaceful and nonviolent she purported to be, her mindfulness of the underground prison activity going her around her never waned. She was always watchful. She had to be because if she was close to any of the beatings, misdealing or other criminal activity, the guards tended to place the blame on her.

As Femi sat alone reading she caught sight of a wiry woman ditty-bopping through the chow hall. Femi eyed the woman’s hand and was fairly certain the prisoner was concealing something under her sleeves. The wiry prisoner passed the object to a muscular white woman with a shaved head. The muscular woman stood and glared across the tables at a pretty Latina prisoner seated a table playing Concentration. The muscular woman charged with speed belying her girth, and pinned the Latina to the table. She snatched out a shiv — a toothbrush with a sharpened edge wrapped in toilet paper and scotch tape handle — and repeatedly stabbed the defenseless woman in the neck. Blood squirted like a fountain as the woman’s heart worked against her, contributing further to her exsanguination with every heartbeat.

The Latina prison gang was stupefied momentarily by the surprise and unprovoked attack, but they quickly regained their wits and jumped to the dying woman’s defense. More members of each gang joined in and soon all gangs, in every color was embroiled in heap of swinging fists, gouging eyes, scratching and cutting; bodies were entangled in a bloody gang bang.

An ear-piercing electronic shriek roared over the public address system and Femi knew what was coming: The Riot Police. They were malicious and angry prison guards in riot gear wielding Plexiglas shields, pepper spray and batons. She quickly stood, grabbed her books and moved to the furthest corner from the melee. She got down on her knees and placed her hands behind her head, interlocking her fingers.

The Riot Police roared in like a tsunami shoving and beating everyone in its path. The Guards attacked the mob, matching its fury with their brutal concept of authority. The sounds of wood blackjacks and metal Asps smacking flesh and splintering bones surrounded Femi as she closed her eyes and made every to appear non-threatening. She was perfectly and absolutely still.

Nate Humphrey was an unsavory guard with mischief in his eyes. He was tall, thin and hunched over. His fingers were abnormally long and he used to brag that they were more effective than his penis. Nate held his shield and swung his baton to smash his way through the prisoners. He had a limp that originated not from a bad condition with his legs or feet, but rather a perpetual razor sharp ache that originated in his groin.

Nate eyed the crowd, unconcerned with the women still fighting. He kept looking and smashing heads with his baton until he spotted Femi in the corner. He tossed his shield away and marched over, holding his baton at the ready position. When he reached Femi she shook her head and looked up into his eyes. She’d seen that dark look in his eyes before. She monitored how menacingly he held the baton in his hand. She turned away to avoid his eyes and spoke plainly.

I had nothing to do with that gang fight. she affirmed.

The hell you didn’t! He spat back at her.

I’ve been good, I swear! She said louder.

She watched as Nate moved closer, within striking distance, still rubbing the baton. He stepped closer and then — her demeanor changed like a switch had been flipped. Gone was the innocent, vulnerable prisoner trying to avoid trouble. A fearless and vengeful goddess ready to rain down fury replaced her.

Don’t do it. She commanded.

You shut your mouth until you're spoken to! Nate was shouting and spitting now. Utterly single-minded, his hand unconsciously moved to his groin and he grabbed himself. It was an odd gesture, not lewd.

It would not be good, she warned.

Nate rubbed his groin again, then drew back with the baton and swung for Femi’s head. Her right hand moved in a blur from behind her head and caught the baton just inches away from her skull on the left. There was a loud slap as the wood impacted the softness of her palm. If Femi felt pain it didn’t register on her face.

Then, in the blink of an eye she was off her knees and on her feet. She wrenched the baton from Nate’s hands; her left fist crossed her body and jammed into Nate’s throat. She quickly retracted her fist and launched it again, this time into his solar plexus. She followed up with a knee-kick to his chin. She stunned the shit out of him and he flopped backwards against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut.

A second guard rushed over to help but Femi ducked his baton swings twice and jammed the heel of her hand into his nose. When he reeled, she jumped up and nailed him in the temple with a reverse kick.

She squatted as she came down to the floor and swung her leg out to sweep Nate off his feet. As soon as his back smacked the concrete floor she was on top of him with tightly clenched fists punching, punching and punching. Her face was twisted with malevolence.

Nate’s face began to swell and he bled from the corners of his eyes and lips. He tried in vain to fight her